


Rain

by Haunted_Moonlight, Vilteofhope



Series: Rain [4]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Also contains some triggers so read at your own risk, Basically an origin story for the demons we know and love, But everything is awful, But this one should be more or less safe enough, Does not follow the WKM cannon, Historic fiction, Just beware of later if this series ends up being continued, M/M, Yes it is Danti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 09:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haunted_Moonlight/pseuds/Haunted_Moonlight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilteofhope/pseuds/Vilteofhope
Summary: Halloween was the point that horrified everyone, when a demon took control of a popular youtuber and forced him to slit his own throat. Valentine's Day had everyone shook at the emergence of a whole new entity that was just as much on par. But instead of focusing in on the horrors of now, it's time to go back. Back to see who these demons once were, back to see their stories. Not all things are quite as they seem...





	Rain

_** August, 1914 - Dublin, Ireland ** _

 

He always hated the rain.

Good fuckin’ place to grow up, of course, fuckin’ Dublin. He might’ve hated the rain _less_ if he was ever able to enjoy it from underneath the dryness of an actual roof. But no, should he _ever_ be that lucky. Instead he sat underneath his usual overhang, knees pulled into his chest as he tried to keep his bare feet drawn in under the shelter and out of the puddle that threatened to seep around and underneath him, into his old tattered and patched clothes. He shivered lightly as cold water dripped from soft brunette hair, having gotten caught in the early stages of the downpour in his scramble (or crawl) for decent shelter. His empty tin can sat next to him, filling with rainwater rather than money. Fair enough, he supposed. Nobody would stop to spare a coin in this weather (nobody would generally stop to spare a coin period), but at least this way he could actually get something to drink that didn’t taste like the pisswater around here.

He winced slightly as he tried to adjust his position and pull his freezing toes in a bit more, feeling pain pulse and spasm outward from underneath an old dirty bandage and ripple throughout his leg. Green eyes squeezed shut as for a brief moment his vision swam, and he pulled in a shaky breath as he let his head fall back against the cold stone wall, sweat beading on his brow in spite of his chills. He remained like this for an indeterminate amount of time-perhaps for minutes, perhaps for hours. Things seemed to sink into a muted darkness for a while until the next time he opened his eyes, blinking a few times to see a man staring down at him.

The man wasn’t Irish, or at least not completely, he could certainly tell that much just from first glance. He had too much of the mixed mutt features standard for an American, not to mention that proud confident posture he often saw Americans with. It was clear the dark hair that now hung around his stubbled face was once slicked back, but it was a look that was ruined by the downpour as it dripped down his pale skin. By this point that was rectified, however, a black umbrella providing him with portable shelter. In his other hand he held a black leather case of sorts. His clothing was snappy, easily, a suit and tie and _what the hell was someone like that doing in this part of town?_

But what caught his attention most were the man’s eyes: brown eyes that blazed almost red, that maintained calm and distant and almost disinterested but at the same time hid...something. Something intense but trying to think of whatever that something might be just made his head hurt even more.

But did it even really matter?

This man was looking at _him_.

_Nobody ever looked at him._

And although it was piercing, grim judging that seemed to cause a crawling anxiety to creep up the Irishman’s bones and his body to almost shrink, _holy shit, it was still attention_.

When the Irishman tried to speak, his voice was rougher than he remembered, his north Dublin accent thick from weariness. But he tried to make up for the lack of substance in his voice by making eye contact, spending (perhaps unwisely) as much energy as he could spare to go towards whatever intensity he could muster (not much).

“You pay three pence to see the freaks at the circus,” he pointed out, keeping his head held high in spite of his condition on all counts. “Could you spare at least one if you’re gonna stare like that?”

The stranger was silent for a moment, eyeing him, staring him down, and for just a brief flicker the Irishman wasn’t completely sure if his remark wasn’t about to earn him a swift kick. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But then the stranger’s lip curled as he replied in a smooth voice that was deeper than he’d anticipated, “The freaks at the circus are worth the three pence. They provide entertainment. What can you do?” The Irishman’s jaw dropped for a moment, speechless. “What’s a dirty beggar like you worth?”

The words stung more than the occasionally-oozing wound in his leg, pounded into him more than the fever that wracked his body. He tried to swallow but his throat felt like sandpaper, his mouth attempted to form words but for once failed. The man stared him down as if his life was worth no more than a bug’s (really, it wasn’t), and that much was nothing new. That was a look he got all the time, if he ever got a look at all, but it wasn’t one that was often actually vocalized. As his mouth worked like a fish out of water for words, the stranger soon seemed to lose interest.

“That’s what I thought,” the latter remarked flatly, moving to head off down the street again.

It was at the point the Irishman saw the man’s back facing him that he finally found words, ones that were heavy with indignation and laced with mild desperation in whatever emotion one could still make out through his hoarseness.

“I can sing!”

The man stopped but didn’t turn to look back at him. Not yet.

Still, it was _attention_ . He had the man’s _attention_.

“I can sing, I-I can act...I can…” But the words were bringing up a wave of nausea that’d been recurring for the past couple of days, leaving his stomach deprived of whatever scraps he could manage to find. Still. It was a sensation he’d mostly kept suppressed mostly by keeping his big mouth shut, but now he had made the mistake of _talking_ . Oh, this was a mistake. He was desperate to prove the man wrong, that he had _some form of worth_ , that he could do _something_ , as unprofitable as it might’ve been, but now it was just making him even more ill. His vision swam again and spots of dark were beginning to appear before his eyes as the man turned back to look at him.

“I can…” He drew in a shuddering breath as he could feel his voice break. “I’m still worth…”

Oh god and now the world was tilting. The world was tilting and he instinctively squeezed his eyes shut but even then his posture felt precarious, like he was going to tip off the doorstep and into the wet street, roll and keep rolling until he fell off the edge of the planet. His words petered out as they gave way to harsh coughing that came from deep within his chest, coughing that wasn’t going away and leaving him gasping for air between attacks.

Oh, this wasn’t just a mistake, this was a nightmare made real. The last words on his lips were going to be an unfinished and unconvincing argument that he was actually worth _something, anything_ , and to a mere passing stranger that probably looked at _dirt_ with a greater appreciation than he did him. He was burning up. He was freezing cold. And as he shook and gravity took hold, he could feel water soaking through, into his clothes.

_Damn, and he didn’t even have so much as a spare shirt._

He didn’t even realize he’d pushed himself from the stable security of the wall just slightly and in the process toppled over, into the puddle of rainwater polluted by the streets of the North Dublin slums that had pooled just in front of the doorstep. Everything was growing dark and distant, his awareness dimming more completely than an ember caught out in a storm. It was probably only a span of a few minutes, and vaguely he wondered with drowning and choking bitterness where his body was going to be tossed into its unmarked pauper’s grave, how long it was going to be before anyone could even be bothered to remove it from the streets like the trash that it was.

He was sure he’d imagined it before he was completely pulled under.

He had to have imagined it, or maybe it was the sensation of an angel lifting a young soul marred by honest struggle up to heaven.

Or maybe it was the sensation of a demon dragging a beaten soul warped by desperate sin down to hell.

But the last thing he felt was arms scooping up his violently-trembling frame and carrying him away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so still working on stuff to the Devil's Deal universe, but here's a little something in the meantime set in a little universe of its own! I might post more to the series, I might not, we'll see-I do already have some extra chapters written to this, so. I'm also piss-poor at writing relationships, and this one is uh...complicated. Um-just beware of some triggers in future chapters, I'll make sure to label them accordingly if they get posted. And one of the other reasons I'm so hesitant on posting this one is because I know at least a portion of it is centered around a rather controversial point in history, but I will do my best to be as impartial as I can??? Just remember the perspective of the characters though. But in the meantime! As always, if you liked it, drop a kudo, drop a comment, and I might see you all in the next chapter. Until then!


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